


Chronological Chaos

by madrabbitgirl



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU - Philadelphia, Alternate Universe, American AU, American universe, But I can't remember all of them, F/M, John POV mostly, M/M, Magical Realism, Megan told me to write Unreliable Narrator but we disagree on what that means, Mentions of lots of things, Panic Attacks, Past/Current Drug Use, Present Tense, Semi-original canon, Sex, Some angst, Split Timelines, Time Travel, cursing, friendship to romance, pathologist Sherlock, potentially suicidal tendencies, reporter John, set in Philadelphia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-06-04 19:18:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6672145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madrabbitgirl/pseuds/madrabbitgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being wounded on his last assignment, John returns to Philadelphia with a chip on his shoulder and a bullet hole in his leg. His attitude changes when he moves in with Will, a crazy jerk who does experiments in the bathtub, drags him to the morgue and chases away his dates. It's okay, though. It's better than okay, it's great. Until the day that John realizes he's the only one who can see Will...</p><p>So which one of them isn't real?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John

**Author's Note:**

> A LONG time ago a dear friend of mine asked me to write a fic for her based on the fan video Shell Shocked where John thinks he's hallucinating Sherlock. I wrote a bunch of different ones but this was my favorite. I wanted to make the story my own, so I'd changed the names and set it in Philadelphia instead of London/BBC canon but then I decided it wasn't fun without Sherlock and John. The names have (mostly) been changed back but Philly is my favorite city so I kept them American for this fic. It's finished but since I keep adding to it as I edit I can't give a chapter count right now.
> 
> Fun Fact: Moriarty's is a real bar. Go there, get fries with a side of buffalo wing sauce and a gin and tonic. It's the best.

I wish I could say I'm not a miserable person but generally speaking that is my default mood lately. They tell you it can always get worse but events in my life have just snowballed one on top of the other until I can't take it anymore, something that no therapist really seems to appreciate. 

There was the bullet. 

My therapist tells me to let it go, but I'm sorry, being fucking shot while on assignment is sort of hard to forget, especially when it damages the nerves in your leg and causes nightmares about war zones. Then, of course, being fired from my job, also hard to forget or let go. Perhaps 'fired' is too strong a word to use to describe what happened to me. My 'concerned' boss asked if I wouldn't be happier taking more time off to recover from the bullet, all the while grooming my replacement. And yeah, I shouldn't have thrown a stapler at her head but it's not been the best few months. I think I should be allowed to have a breakdown or two. I'm lucky. I know I'm lucky to be alive, lucky to be back in the States, but there's going to be bad days, too. 

I chant it to myself, you know. I'm lucky, I'm lucky, I'm lucky. The therapist swears by the 'fake it 'til you make it' style of counseling but the only thing I can fake is a polite tone through the half-hour sessions with her. It is really almost like a bad song caught on repeat in there, just going over and over. I'm lucky to be alive, I'm lucky to be here, I'm lucky.

I don't feel very lucky. 

Which is what I'm thinking when the biggest disaster I've ever known literally ran into me because he wasn't looking where he was going. Or... maybe I wasn't playing as close attention as I probably should have, but I'm always irritated after therapy. 

“Sorry,” the guy mumbles, fingers continuing to move over the screen of his expensive phone. He starts to move off without even looking up at me.

“You're William.” I wish I hadn't said it, but I did, just sort of blurt it out there. I hate when people recognize me from my articles in public and this guy (at least, I think it's him) is someone I'd barely had a passing acquaintance with in college. Friend of a friend of a friend sort of thing. 

The man looks up at me with bewildered green-gray eyes and I immediately glance away. I clear my throat, feeling an embarrassed blush creeping up my neck. "Sorry, sorry. Must've been someone else." 

I turn to walk away and my leg is aching. I'm supposed to do physical therapy but I never manage to keep the appointments and the muscles aren't used to the long walks to the train station. 

“I am William,” the guy says and I turn back giving him a hesitant smile. He looks at me, with no clear sign of recognition on his face. He cocks an eyebrow at me, waiting. 

“We um, went to the same college. Sorry, just uh, surprised me to see someone I knew,” I say, starting to turn away again. I'm about half a block away, limping now, when I find him next to me, his eyes intently glued on the screen of his phone.

“How was the desert?” he asks and I stop, looking back up at him. I could swear he's laughing inside, even though his features are smooth as marble, not an expression in sight. He flips his phone around, showing my most recent article, which was still several months ago. “I remembered your name after a few seconds. Quick online search, I'm not psychic. I wanted to know why you were limping, and as there are no recent reports of a man matching your description being shot in the city, I figured it had to be something interesting. Probably war related but you're not a soldier.”

“That's sort of creepy. Amazing, but creepy,” I tell him. It is. It's one thing when someone knows my face from a stray broadcast or the online reporting that I'd been doing, but this is almost an invasion of privacy. In the time I had taken to gimp my way down a city block, he had my whole life story in the palm of his hands. “I mean, I know technology helps, but that's weird. Don't do that.”

“Why? Afraid I'll see the post where you were fired from your desk job? It's alright, you were probably bored there after they took you off the military coverage,” William says, turning his screen back for moment, flipping up a new window which does indeed show the details of a reporter losing his temper at his boss. “It makes you almost interesting.”

He _is_ interesting, no almost about it. I huff out a breath, unsure of what to say to that, lips pursed. I take a good look at him, noting the subtle changes in his appearance since we were in school. He's much taller than me, and his dark, curly hair is wild and unkempt, but he's wearing a nice-fitting suit that implies respectable job. He's not handsome, exactly, but he's striking. Compelling, even. He's also watching me give him the once-over. He raises his eyebrow again. “See something you like?” 

I clear my throat. “No, no, I mean, I just, um.” Yeah, a real ace writer, I am. Quite a way with words. “So that's all? You open my whole life on your phone and follow me down the street to ask how the worst experience of my life was?”

He nodded, almost smiling. “That's about right, yes." 

“Right then,” I say before I start walking away. He follows, though.

“I take it the court mandated therapy isn't going well,” he drawls. I nearly take his phone from him. 

“You could say that,” I reply. He snorts dismissively. 

“Dare I ask what the therapist suggests to help you with your current position?” he asks. I roll my eyes, wondering why I'm even telling him, but I am. Telling him.

“Fiction. She thinks I should write a book,” I say, swallowing the bitter taste in my mouth. If only swallowing would remove the bitterness of the words, too. He gives me a thoughtful look.

“Well, you are a reporter,” he points out. “You should be used to making up stories.” 

I'm indignant for about a second, chest puffed out, feeling insulted but then- I smile. I really do, and then I start to laugh. I'm laughing so hard I have to stop walking. And he's smiling, too. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. Several other pedestrians are giving me worried glances and quick stares. When I'm through giggling, I'm breathless. “Thanks, I really needed that.” 

He doesn't say anything, but we continue to walk. It's a drizzling, grey sort of day and my light jacket isn't warm enough for the cold weather. After a few moments of silence I ask him, “You've brought up all my skeletons. What about you? What've you done with yourself since college?” 

He shrugs, and I don't know why but I feel he doesn't want to talk about it, but after a few moments he answers. “I'm a pathologist. Well, forensic pathologist.” 

“A doctor, then?” I ask and he shrugs again. I don't feel like pushing, even though he seems to know everything about my life. “That's nice.” 

“It's something,” he says, and he smiles again but this time it's a fake one. I can tell because his eyes don't light the same way, and the corners are smooth. 

“I should go,” I say when the silence between us becomes awkward and uncomfortable. I motion to my leg. “Should really get off of this thing.” 

He nods slowly, but then he says, “You know, there's a bar down the street. Moriarty's. Does a really good lunch special. I was going to meet with one of the med techs but she's always telling me to get out more. You could tell me more about being a journalist. I could ask you why a stapler and not something harder, like a paperweight.” 

I consider, but then I say, “I was angry, not homicidal.” 

“Shame, murder would've been more interesting. Still, probably a bad idea to throw things at people. Women, especially, seem to get upset about it,” William replies, and his hand is between my shoulder blades, guiding me in the opposite direction from where I'd been heading. “It also looks bad to potential room mates.”

“Who said anything about room mates?” I ask, looking up at him. He's even taller than I originally thought, and I have to angle my chin up. He's grinning again. 

“Just a hunch,” he chuckles. “You're reaching out, looking for something to ground yourself, to prove you're still here even though you're supposed to be grateful to be alive. Even if it's someone you were once cruel to in school, you're willing to recall their name and then carry on a conversation with them even though you were at first taken aback and even a little insulted. I can tell by the state of your wrinkled shirt and that nick on your face that you don't care about appearances, not in a lazy way but in a way that suggests you don't have a partner to impress, at least not one living with you.”

“I feel slightly violated,” I tell him and he laughs again.

“No, you don't,” William says, and it's true.

“It still doesn't explain why you think I'm looking to live with someone, or why you think I would move in with you,” I say. “Or, if I was so mean to you in school, why you would want to live with me.” 

“You were recently fired,” is his simple answer. “You want to remain in the city, or you wouldn't be coming downtown for therapy. You're bored, and you know I wouldn't bore you because within five minutes I've paid more attention to you than anyone you've known and not out of some desire to rekindle a relationship or win you over, because I have nothing I want from you.” 

As he says this, we're settling down at a cozy table in a low-lit pub (the front of which is painted a startling shade of blue). I mull over his words. It occurs to me to ask, "Why are you offering?" 

“Am I?” Even for a man his voice is especially deep, and his words are spoken so low that I barely hear them. He leans closer. “I've recently inherited my mother's house in the Chestnut Hill section of Philadelphia, but I find myself unable to afford the upkeep on my own. If someone lived with me, paying the other half of the expenses, I would be able to live in the manner to which I've become accustomed.” 

“Chestnut Hill?” I say, considering. “So you come from money.” 

“My parents had money. I am, alas, not as well off,” he replies and another thought pops in my head.

“Extravagant lifestyle? How would I know you wouldn't go gambling the house away?” 

He scoffs at this idea, leaning back and folding his arms over his chest. “Dull. I don't gamble. That's more your area than mine.” 

I don't want to know how he knows about that. I'm sure it wasn't in any of my online profiles. “It's alright, you know. Everyone has vices.” 

“You've certainly had a few,” he replies. “Frat parties, new girlfriend every week, that rumor about you and the teacher's aid-” 

“How do you remember all that? Paying attention, were you?” I ask and he shakes his head. 

“Data. I like to collect information if I think it could be useful,” William says, but his eyes turn guarded and maybe even a little shy. “Turned out to be useful today.”

“Once you remembered my name,” I say with a grin. He smiles back at me.

“Yes, well, we can't all be as quick as you,” he says.


	2. John

We settle into what I think of as a nice routine. He's a crazy bastard, but he makes my life interesting again. He shows me his work, which is the most important thing to him. It spills over to fill out every aspect of his life. There's no room for spouses or friends - I think he only has me because I happen to live with him. He likes the puzzles of solving murders and the need for knowledge consumes him. Sometimes I wonder if he's got a death fetish but then, every once in a while, a reaction will catch him off guard and I start to wonder if maybe he just doesn't understand people as a whole. Maybe he thinks by picking apart the bodies he'll figure out why normal people feel driven to do the things he finds so abhorrent (which ranges from murders to dating). 

I hate to admit it but he makes my heart race. It's... unsettling, to say the least.

Caught up in his whirlwind, I find myself trying to take care of him. He's not a child, but somehow I see him as the same almost-teenager he was in college. He refuses to eat and I make sure to pick up carry out to tempt him. Luckily for me almost all of my efforts succeed because there are several decent places to eat in the neighborhood. When Will runs himself to exhaustion, I beg him to sleep. That usually fails but I make sure to shuffle him off to bed when I find him slumped over the table or on the sofa. He's almost sweet when he's too tired to be a dick. I try to make sure he's at least managing basic human functions and not totally running on fumes. 

It's flattering when I figure out he does the same for me. 

It's little things. Sometimes it's hard to catch, but he does try. Knowing I'm worried about finding another job, he urges me to relax and watch TV while he does some disgusting experiment in the bathtub. (I really don't want to think about what's decomposing in the oven except that it ruins my plans to start cooking more meals at home.) He takes me for long walks around the city where he explains gruesome cases he helped solve so that I have stories to think about. He's enthusiastic, in that reserved way he has, about my therapist's idea for me to write a book.

"Not because it's therapeutic," he tells me, eyes sparkling with humor despite the snotty expression on his face. "You're not even a particularly good writer, but you miss it and finding another position like the one you lost would be nearly impossible even without throwing things at your employer." 

He likes that the book is about him. It rubs his large ego the right way.

It's more than that, though. I have nightmares. Often. Sometimes, it shifts and I'm not the one getting shot. It's him. I'm not a doctor, there's nothing I can do for him. In the rolling, shifting nightmare land of my brain, he's dying on the sand (or in an alley) and there's nothing I can do. One night, after yet another vision of one of us dying, a sign my brain is cracking under the weight of job hunting and being injured, I find Will standing in the doorway to my bedroom. A thousand books have described moments like this one, where the person most important to you quietly slips into your room and holds your hand while you wake up from a bad dream. It's a reminder that you're here, in the present, with them. His too-thin frame perches on the edge of my bed like the slightest weight will break it, but his hand is warm and solid. He says nothing. He doesn't even ask me to talk about it. I know I must have been shouting this time because his room is on the first floor of the house, but I can tell by the suit he's wearing that he wasn't in bed yet. I almost scold him for it but that would break the magic of this particular moment. Eventually, my heart slows. My breaths start to match his, and then they slow to a more natural, restful pace. With his sharp eyes on my face, I fall back to sleep, my hand clutching his in an iron grip.

We take care of each other. It just becomes a thing that we do, without question.   
Except for today. 

Today, I'm going to maim him. 

Or murder him.

Or something, for Christ's sake, how can one man be so fucking irritating?

But somehow he manages it. In spades. It's not enough that he's used my favorite shirt to mop up a bleach spill in the kitchen sink (the bleach having been used to clean the sink after I found the remains of a human brain in it). It's certainly not enough that my favorite mug was broken during one of his Highness's recent benders. Those things I can live with, for the most part. Thanks to my record of frequent moves and travels, I can deal with losing shit and having to replace it. No, no, it's not so very much that (it's a little bit that). It's the way he speaks to me. That's going to be the straw that breaks the camel's back. 

“Did you have to say it like that?” I ask him. He's going over a corpse in a morgue for a recent case, analyzing blood stains or whatever it is he does to determine the cause of death. He's ignoring me, and it burns. “I mean, that cop was right there, Will. He heard everything you said.” 

There, that gets him. His green eyes flicker up to give me a cold stare before returning to the forearm of a dead man. “I detest nicknames.”

“I detest you right now,” I snap, throwing my hands up. The mousy female lab assistant is hovering near the door, listening to us chat. What was her name... Mona? Morgan? Megan? Molly? I know it's an M. "I'm not an idiot. You don't have to treat me like one in front of a cop!" 

“You're being ridiculous,” William growls back. “If you're going to just stand there and sulk, you can leave. I won't require your assistance today.” He's gotten in the habit of taking me to work with him. It's highly against procedure, but the other techs say that he is easier to handle on days I tag along. 'Nice for him to have a new punching bag', I think was the exact phrasing. It helps my novel research, too. Still, sometimes I get sick of being nothing more than an audience for a narcissistic genius. I huff angrily. 

"I'm not stupid. No matter what you think." 

“Then why are you persisting with this conversation? What do you have to prove, if you so clearly disagree with what I said?” he sneers and I find myself balling my hands in to fists at my side. 

“I want you to apologize!” I demand and he snorts.

“I have nothing to apologize for! If you don't want to be referred to as missing several brain cells then try to act accordingly!” William hisses. I flinch, remembering the lab tech watching us. I know her goal in life is to try and convince Will to fuck her and she's got her brown eyes glued to us like it's the most riveting soap opera. I object to being her entertainment.

“Fuck you,” I snarl, slamming my way out of the morgue doors. 

“Very eloquent, John!” he calls after me, his tone smug and superior. 

I'm chanting in my mind as I walk away. _I hate him, I hate him, I hate him._

The only problem is that I don't actually hate him. He's wonderful and for some reason it pisses me off. He's intelligent and cunning. He solves murders with science and anatomy. There aren't lies with the things he does and the stories he tells. But he's cold, and cruel and he doesn't care who he destroys or whose feelings he's hurt. Half the time I put up with it because I've seen him reduce medical technicians to tears and if I can take the brunt of his cutting words away from someone else, I'll do it. 

I feel my phone buzz in my pocket and I ignore it. It buzzes again and again, but I continue to be stubborn. Fuck him. Fuck him and his half-baked apologies that only last until the next inconsiderate thing he's done. Fuck his brilliant mind and his perfect hair and his damn superior attitude. If he's so amazing he clearly doesn't need anyone else, certainly not a washed-up journalist with a bum leg. I seethe on the R8 back home, leg twitching painfully. The train tracks under me echo a repetitive sound that could have been 'he doesn't need you, he doesn't need you, he doesn't need you'. 

The tracks are right. He doesn't need me.

Feeling sorry for myself, I limp my way into a bar for lunch. It's close to home, and the beer is cheap when purchased with the lunch special. I'm a familiar enough customer that the waitresses try to joke with me. 

“What's he done now, hon?” a sympathetic blond asks me. “Tore up another one of your shirts?”

“Nah, that's a bad sex face if I've ever seen one,” a brunette bartender teases. I frown at her, and that's when I feel someone's hand brush over my shoulder. 

“No,” her voice whispers in my ear. “That's a 'no sex' face. Don't suppose you'd like to fix that?”

"Careful, girl, that pansy he lives with doesn't like people messing with his shit," the bartender says with a warning tone. 

I'm half-drunk, still simmering, and most certainly offended at the implication that I'm his property. The girl, I think her name is Ellen, has waited on me before. She's nice. She's passably pretty. She's winking at me and I don't think she's kidding because I feel her slip something into my pocket. So I smile at her, and I try to be charming, but I can tell my S's are slurring together. It doesn't matter to her. She follows me home after another round, her shift over by then, and we have sex in the middle of the afternoon. 

It's just what I need.

Ellen doesn't want any more than something fun, and I can respect that. She also makes a few pointed comments that make me uncomfortable, comments that suggest there might be more to me and my roommate than meets the eye. She's wrong. I'm not in love with him or interested in him. For God's sake, he's a man and I'm not- well, I don't bat for that team. 

Even though he does have amazing hair. (How many times have I thought that today?) 

And eyes. 

Stupid lips.

Gorgeous stupid lips.

Ellen sways out of the room, making her way downstairs. I hear her greet someone while I shrug into my dirty clothes, and then the door closes. I wonder if it'll be awkward to eat in the bar again. With a heavy heart and jelly legs, I make my way down to the kitchen in search of water. An afternoon of drinking combined with rigorous activity is thirsty work. On my shelf in the fridge, all the bottles I'd purchased are gone.

"Take one of mine," his voice says from too close. I knew he was home but I still start, clutching my chest like a Victorian heroine. He'd snuck up behind me and was leaning in, so close I can smell his aftershave. How is he so pristine after being up to his neck in dead bodies all day?

"Th-thanks," I manage, reaching back into the fridge with jerky movements to take one of his bottles of water. We really should invest in one of those pitcher things, but we're home so infrequently. I've almost forgotten to be mad at him. Sex must've worked the temper out of me.

"I hate nicknames," Will says and I give him a confused look. 

"Oh. Okay," I reply. Weird, but I take my bottle of water into the living room and plop down on the couch. I hear him give a sigh, and in the catalog of his sighs (why do I know what they all mean) it's clearly the 'John's being stupid' sigh. He stands in the doorway, waging an expression war between 'still angry' and 'wants to make up'. 

"John. You call me Will. You're the only person who uses my first name," Will says. His slow tone makes him sound like he's speaking to a child. I'm too blissed out to resent it this time. "We had one class together, the teacher used my first name despite my repeated efforts to correct her. Tradition in my family is that we're referred to by our middle names. From the police to my work colleagues to any acquaintances I had in college, they all call me by my middle name. You are the only one I allow to call me something different." 

"Oh," I repeat. Then pause. "Is that important?" 

He makes a strangled groan. "Why do I bother?" 

"No! No, wait." I put my water to the side and stand, crossing the room so I could get a better look at him. "Look, you can't just assume I know what you're talking about. Explain it to me." 

He's close again. It's all a little bit too much sometimes. He's so much larger than life. Even if he weren't well over six feet tall, he'd take up all the space in a room. He sighs and leans closer. "Earlier. I told you I hate nicknames, before you left. Even though I abhor people calling me by that name, you're an exception to the rule. You're... different. I don't mind it when you do it."

I think I understand this time. He's... not quite saying sorry, but saying that I'm an exception he doesn't usually allow. I feel sort of honored, except I'd still like an apology for making me feel like a fool. "Is that your way of apologizing?" 

Will's perfect pout twists into a smirk. "Are you going to apologize for bringing a stranger into our home?" 

"No," I tell him honestly. He starts to flap his hands in an irritated fashion. "Wait, stop, stop being a dumb ass. Look, I'm allowed to bring girls home, okay? I live here, too. One day I might even pay rent, if I can find a publisher for the book. I just... I need to feel like you need me sometimes. Like I'm good enough for you- I mean, you know, professionally. I mean-" 

"I understand," Will says soothingly and I purse my lips, pretty sure he has no idea what I'm trying to say but I'm so grateful to end the conversation that I just nod. "But you should know she lifted your wallet and you may need to cancel your credit cards." 

"What?" I pat the pockets of my jeans and then storm to the hook next to the front door, rooting around in my jacket pocket. "Fuck! Mother fuck, cunt monkey-" 

"Cunt monkey. That's new," Will says thoughtfully. He's got his violin in his hands, cradling the beloved instrument while gazing out the window. Our neighbor has a beautiful garden that I know he secretly enjoys looking at. I fume for a moment before a new question occurs to me.

"If people don't call you William, what do they call you?" 

"Sherlock. They call me Sherlock," he says, and then he starts to play something so beautiful I almost relax while I start calling my credit card company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- They renamed the trains. When I first moved there the Chestnut Hill West was called the R8. I always keep the old name in my writing just because it sounds more train-ish than 'the hill west'. (There's a Hill East, too. That's the R7.) It's weird to be sentimental about a transit system, but I am. 
> 
> \- Being bad and posting without a beta because my betas are busy busy people. LenaRidere looked over this for me real fast, though, so I'm not entirely on my own.


	3. John

"Why are we here?" I complain, following Lestrade down the stairs. "I know it's your turn to pick but this isn't exactly the usual spot, is it?" For most of our nights out, we like the small neighborhood watering holes with the game on loud and nice quality but normal beer. I look around the place. First off, the brick walls as we go down into the basement are decorated with really garish and sort of scary clowns. The bar is nestled between arches and the lighting is spooky, looking more like a catacombs than somewhere I really want to drink. The broken remnants of arcade games lurk in the shadows, every once in a while blinking with weird lights. A group of YOLO-looking guys linger at the pool table.

"Hipster girls," Greg says, leaning up against the bar. He looks ridiculous. Nope, scratch that, we both look ridiculous.

"Greg, we can't stay here. This is fucking weird. This is the kind of place that serves organic-vegan-pumkin-chai beer that will cost your entire paycheck," I say, cringing into my jacket. "We look old enough to be their dads. Hipster girls! You're too old for hipster girls!"

"Speak for yourself. Besides, girls love the whole Anderson Cooper thing I've got going on." Greg beckons the lone bartender closer, ordering two of some kind of beer I don't even recognize which is fine because I don't see a menu or anything in this place. He takes one look at my face and cracks up. "Relax, buddy, relax. Besides, it's fifty cent pirogi night and it's not like I've got anyone at home cooking dinner for me. Gotta eat sometime, right?"

I think for a moment about the man I left sulking on the couch back at home. "Yeah, Will doesn't cook, so-"

Greg starts to laugh, fingers wrapping around the wet, cold bottle the unsmiling bartender put in front of him. "The only thing I could see him cooking is meth, so I don't blame you. Hey, man, can we get two baskets of pirogis and a side of fries? Thanks. On my tab."

I watch Greg order, thinking over his words while he hands the guy his credit card. I take a swig of my own beer, my tongue dabbing at my bottom lip while I gear up to ask this question. "So about the meth."

"Look, I've never seen Sherlock do meth," Greg assures me, waiting until we were alone again. I had to hand it to him, it was at least quieter than our usual haunts. I nod.

"You've never seen it," I repeat, trying to think of how Will picks sentences apart to get clues.

Greg leans his head back, lips pursed while he stares at the ceiling. "No. I've never known him to do meth. Coke, sure, and once or twice heroin. Officially, on the record, he hasn't done anything. Off the record, he's lucky he's got a brother in Harrisburg or he'd probably have never gotten his medical degree."

"What's the brother got to do with it?" I ask curiously. Greg turns and watches the kids playing pool.

"Well, he's one of those politician types. He's got a house in Harrisburg, a house in D.C. He's hardly ever here, but I know he checks up on Sherlock. The kid had a few close calls back in college. I know there's an ex that the older Holmes ain't too keen on." Greg's eyes turn back on me, watching me digest this news. "If you're asking, does that mean you suspect him of using again? I'm not asking as a cop, just a friend."

"No, no. I mean, he abuses nicotine patches like a fucker but- we had that case a few weeks back, and Mycroft called. Will wouldn't answer his phone, so I talked to him and he asked me some weird questions. It got me thinking." I hate having to explain this to him. It embarrasses me for some reason, like I can't trust Will but when it comes to his own well-being he's never had great judgment. I try to cover my tracks. "You know, wondering how he made it through med school, that kind of thing."

"With enough money, you can make it through anything," Greg laughs, but the sound is humorless and cold. He swallows another mouthful of beer. "Must be nice, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah," I agree. The bar is still slow and I know it's the time of night that people would usually be out. "Greg, this place is shit."

"But it's nice for a chat." He slides onto a bar stool. We're quiet for a few moments, giving the bartender time to sit our order on the bar along with a basket of hot sauce, sour cream and other toppings. We're eating before Greg asks, "So, how's it going with that girl? Karen?"

"I'm out with you, how d'you think it's going?" My tone is smart and slightly irritated, but I'm not really missing Karen much. "She stayed over for a handful of nights before waking up one morning to find Will pouring acid on a human leg. On the kitchen table. Over the danishes we'd intended to eat for breakfast. So that pretty much scared her off."

"Ouch."

"Yeah, so basically it's fine, though. I mean, no one can really stick around while I'm living with that asshole," I say. It sounds sarcastic, but I actually mean it. After that last round, it's really fine. I mean, I'm writing again and I have Will to thank for that.

"Lemme ask you something, though," Greg starts once he's ordered us a few more drinks. He's getting kind of slurry, but I'm too buzzed to give a shit. "He's kind of pretty. If you closed your eyes, or maybe even squinted a little, maybe you could try-"

"Who? Will?"

"Yeah!" Greg is too enthusiastic. "He wants you. I can tell."

"Ha!" I have to admit to myself, I'm half-hard thinking about it. Will's got that hair and those eyes and that brain, and his ass ain't half bad either but- "He gave me that 'married to my work' talk. Wait! Fuck, Greg, I'm not into dudes."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, not gay, I know," Greg says with an eye roll. "Except I get the feeling you're into at least one."

"Fuck you," I snap. It only fuels his giggles.

"How many times have you thought about his hair today?" Greg teases. My eyes widen, bugging out of my head. His hand thumps down on my shoulder. "Look, I'm just saying, he's acting like a jealous girlfriend. I ship the ship, man."

"No. Firmly and completely, no," I reply, flushing under my collar. I try to convince myself that it's just the alcohol. Except I haven't had that much to drink, really.

"Yeah, okay." It doesn't sound like Greg believes me but he drops it.

We have a few more than we should, but we're taking the train home and eventually some girls do show up. I wait while Greg gets a handjob in the bathroom, thinking over his words. Will is definitely special to me, but we're just friends. Best friends. Maybe even that rare, lifelong kind that you only get once. I'd die for the man, right? Just because he's got cool hair and cutting cheekbones and expressive eyes-

Yeah. That definitely sounds straight.

As we walk to the train, with Greg leaning on me too hard and belting out pop songs at the top of his lungs, I work up the courage to ask, "Hey. Tell me about Will's ex. Why's it matter?"

We both stumble on the uneven pavement. I'm pleasantly drunk, but Greg's leaning towards frat-boy-shitfaced. It's a night of trying to convince myself of things. I want to believe it's the alcohol that's allowing me to ask, not a gnawing jealousy in my stomach. It's ridiculous to assume Will's never had exes. Gorgeous, money, intelligence- even under that icy exterior there is a focus that would heat anyone up. People are always drawn to him.

"Fuckin' bitch got the kids-"

"No! Not your ex. Will, remember?" I prompt, slurring my words. Maybe I was more wasted than I'd thought.

Greg pauses and gives me a blank look. I hate it, but I can hear Will's scolding voice in my brain comparing Greg to a particularly slow puppy. It makes me smile a little, though. The elevator hits the top floor in Greg's brain and he gets it. "Oh! Douchebag. Sh'lock solves this thing, gets the asshat out of jail for drugs and then like, he just ghosts him. Sh'lock basically OD's. He says it's not related, but a lot was goin' on back then. That's when he'll even talk. I only got him t'mention it once. Definitely closed book."

I wouldn't know about that. Sometimes, sometimes I wonder. When I can count his ribs under his thin tee shirts, when I can see the hollow, sleepless nights haunting his eyes, I wonder if any of his past is really staying behind him. I think about it while I bundle Greg onto his train, waiting for the Chestnut Hill Local so I can get back to the house. Will solves the thing- a case- gets charges against the ex dropped and then gets nothing for his efforts. Anyone would collapse after that, but Will? He's all science and logic and intellect. He surely wouldn't be brought so low by something as base as physical attraction or desire or love. Right?

I've given myself a headache by the time I open the door to our house. I slide my jacket off of my shoulders and on to the waiting hook by the door, putting my keys in the bowl. It doesn't take a genius to notice the other set- the ones that don't belong to me or to Sherlock- resting in the ceramic dish. I go into the living room expecting to see a potential client of Will's or maybe even the elusive brother, but there's no one. "Will? Are you home?"

He doesn't answer, at least not with words. A loud, graphic moan comes down the hallway from the direction of his bedroom, followed by another in a voice I don't recognize. Eyes wide, my cheeks start to heat up.

Alright. So Will can be taken in by the physical nature of humans. Oh God. There's another moan and I retreat to my bedroom as quickly and quietly as possible. Mostly to give him some privacy but also a little ashamed of myself because there's a small, tiny part of me that is whispering, 'Why couldn't it be you in there?'

I can imagine Will spread out on the bed, making those noises for me, and it drives me insane thinking of him with someone else. But I'm not gay and he's my roommate, which means I just get to listen, by accident, as I lay in my room masturbating.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Being bad and posting without a beta because my betas are busy busy people. LenaRidere looked over this for me real fast, though, so I'm not entirely on my own.
> 
> \- Haven't updated in a long time but this is not an unfinished work, I promise. I've just been really busy because I started school.


End file.
